


One and Done

by Rhysbees



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Not Beta Read, Suicidal Ideation, long talks on philosophy and ethics, no constant au, roadtrip au, sexual content in later chapters i think, sometimes people who are me are going through some shit, tags added as fic goes on, this isn’t a happy fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:34:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27485866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhysbees/pseuds/Rhysbees
Summary: As Wilson’s car screeches to a stop in front of the figure, the man wastes no time before stumbling into what seems to be a prepared statement. Wilson notices that the man seems deeply tired, and he wonders how long he’s been walking on the side of the road.“Say, pal can I get a ride? Just a few miles further west? I would like to see the Pacific one last time.”
Relationships: Maxwell/Wilson (Don't Starve)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 33





	1. In which a journey begins

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cookingwithcyanide](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cookingwithcyanide/gifts).



> For my beloved RoosterWilson.

It’s a crisp evening - mid September. The wind is singing through the open windows as Wilson jolts down the narrow country road. His hair flies around his face, and he grips the steering wheel with his legs so as to use both hands to tie it back. The long country road is has been monotonous miles of fields all day - the midwestern staples of corn and soybeans spread as far as the eye can see. He guesses that he’s probably in Iowa by now. There’s a certain calmness in the sameness of the landscape - the bumping of the car on the gravel roads like the movements of a boat on choppy waves and the waving fields of harvest-ready grains like the salty crests of the sea.

He returns his hands to the wheel in time to make a particularly tight turn and whoops in delight as the car tilts onto two wheels before being set back down once the wheel is straightened. He’s missed this. There’s something about country driving that the cities and suburbs can never hope to emulate.

Squinting against the sun, he sees a figure on the side of the road in the distance. It’s an odd sight. There’s not been any sort of houses for miles now and there is no sign of a broken down vehicle either. He wonders if it’s a trick of the sun. He lifts a hand from the wheel to shield his eyes from the sun to get a better look. No. It’s a person all right - and a fairly well dressed one at that in what looks to be a purple three-piece suit of all things. As the car speeds closer, he sees that figure has a thumb raised in a very stereotypical sign for needing a lift. Wilson suppresses a snort at the sight, but eases off the gas all the same. As he screeches to a stop in front of the figure, the man wastes no time before stumbling into what seems to be a prepared statement. Wilson notices that the man seems deeply tired, and he wonders how long he’s been walking on the side of the road. 

“Say, pal can I get a ride? Just a few miles further west? I would like to see the Pacific one last time.” 

Wilson blinks. What an odd statement. Nevertheless, he _is_ heading westward for a conference in Reno and it would be awfully rude to leave him standing there in the dirt - heaven knows he hasn’t seen another car in hours... And besides, he doubts the man could do any real harm. Just from his initial glance he can tell that while nicely dressed the other man looks pretty worse for wear - his hands shaking as he sways a bit on his feet. 

“Sure. Get in.” 

The man looks surprised - like he was used to being rejected. Wilson supposes that not everyone says yes to random hitchhikers on the side of Midwestern roads. He clears his throat and repeats himself,

“I mean it. Get in.” 

This spurs the man into action and he quickly clambers into Wilson’s car. As he snaps the seatbelt with a _clic_ he coughs uncomfortably. 

“Thanks, pal.”

“Yeah. Sure. West you said?” 

“Yeah. California, but I’m grateful for however long you’ll drive me.” 

Wilson bites the inside of his cheek as he shifts the car from _park_ to _drive_ again and slams on the gas. 

“Yeah. No problem.” 

“I can pay you, by the way.”

Wilson is a bit surprised by this revelation. He wonders why the other man didn’t just take a bus or a cab, but he doesn’t ask. He considers the situation. 

“If you’re paying, I’ll drive you the whole way. But only if you’re serious about that.” 

The man reaches into his pocket. Wilson tenses and readies himself in case a weapon is inside, but it’s just a worn wallet with a faded photograph in the display pouch. He shows Wilson the cash within. 

“Dead serious.” 

Wilson nods. 

“Okay. Yeah.”

Fuck that conference. He was no longer interested in paying hundreds of dollars to deal with his stupid colleagues and sit through hours of lectures that weren’t even relevant to his field. The situation at hand was quickly becoming very interesting, and hell he could always stand to make a few bucks,

“Yeah. What the hell. Why not.” 

The man gives him an odd look.

“Are you kidding, pal? California’s more than a days drive away... Don’t you have somewhere to be? Somewhere you were going?”

Wilson shakes his head. 

“Nope. Not really. Nothing that’s not more interesting than whatever the hell this is anyway.” 

The odd look remains. 

“Sure, pal. I aint gonna look a gift horse in the mouth.” 

Wilson reaches across to the glove compartment to dig out a map of the United States. 

“So where in California are we going? Also can you hold this?” 

“San Francisco. And sure, no problem.”

There is a _thump_ as Wilson ploughs over a particularly deep pothole. 

“Pal... Do you want me to do that?” 

Wilson looks up from where he is marking the map - half spread across the other man’s lap and half spread across the steering wheel - in permanent marker.

“No... I think I got this.”

“Sure you do, pal.” 

“You don’t have to keep calling me pal. It’s gonna be a long drive. My name’s Wilson.”

“Maxwell.” 

Wilson _hmms_ and makes another mark on the map. Maxwell swears and reaches his hands across Wilson, jerking the wheel as they screech around a sudden turn in the road. 

“Watch the goddamn road!” 

“I was! I was gonna turn!” 

“Sure, pal... Wilson. Sure. Gimme the map.” 

Wilson hands it over. 

Maxwell squints at the markings. 

“This is. Not a direct route.” 

Wilson shrugs. 

“I’ve never been to the Pacific. I want to see the sights. You don’t have to stay the whole way if you’re in a rush.” 

“No. No rush.” 

“Good. Let me know when I need to turn.” 

The conversation ends as Wilson, with his new route plotted, turns his attentions back to the road. The drive is silent except for the occasional interjection as Maxwell directs them on the route that Wilson has chosen. It’s only a few hours later that Wilson starts navigating them into the nearest town, the fall moon high in the sky. 

“I want some dinner. We can stay the night here too. Any preferences?” 

Maxwell shakes his head. “Not really.”

Wilson shrugs. “Okay. Diner it is.” 

They pull into some sort of diner next to some sort of hotel. It’s dark, and while Maxwell was holding the map, the town was so far from the route that he doesn’t even know where they are exactly. He hopes that it’ll be easier to tell in the morning. As it is, he doesn’t really care. He stumbles out of the car shakily, his lack of food and water catching up to him as he is suddenly upright and then very much not upright. His vision blacks suddenly and then returns as he finds himself on the pavement, Wilson hovering over him. The younger man is very close to him and Maxwell jerks his hand away with a sudden wave of nausea as he realises that his wrist is in Wilson’s hands. 

“Sorry!” Wilson puts his hands up defensively. “I was just checking your pulse! I’m a doctor... sort of!” 

Maxwell rubs at his wrists trying to shake off the feeling static running up his arms. “It’s fine. Just don’t like being touched there.” 

“Can you stand?” 

“Yeah. I’m fine. Stood up too fast.” 

He picks himself carefully off the ground, steadying himself against the car for a few minutes before turning to Wilson. 

“Okay.” 

The diner is homely. It’s a very quintessential American diner, decked out in an assortment of stripe and checked patterns. The main colour scheme is a navy blue and a muted bronze mixed with white subway tiling. The tables are cheap linoleum with hard cushion-less seats. There are few patrons - too late after the dinner rush and too early for the late-night drunkards. They seat themselves at a bench, and Wilson immediately begins to skim the all-day breakfast menu. When the waiter arrives, Wilson enthusiastically orders a ham and cheese omelette with a pot of coffee for the table. Maxwell gets eggs and toast. 

They eat in awkward silence for a few moments before Maxwell sets down his silverware and looks over at Wilson. 

“Say... Wilson. Why did you agree like that?”

He said he wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, but none of this was making sense to him.

“What do you mean? I already explained. I don’t have anything I’d rather be doing, and it certainly helps that I’m being paid for my time.” 

“I didn’t even say how much.”

“It doesn’t matter. Look. The alternative was paying big bucks to be cooped up in some stuffy science conference in Reno. Now I get to claim family emergency while I drive some mystery man on a curious trip to San Fran. It’s the most exciting thing to happen all year, I get to skip an event I hate, and I’m making money. Why wouldn’t I do it?” Wilson waves a piece of omelette on his fork to emphasise his point. 

Maxwell doesn’t quite understand, but nods all the same, “I see.”

Wilson shoves the piece of omelette into his mouth marking the end of the conversation.

After getting the check and Maxwell insisting on paying - not that Wilson really protested at all - they drive up the road to what seems to be the only hotel in town. It’s a rundown thing with half burnt out neon lights and a poorly lit gas station nearby. Wilson can almost smell the mildew from where he stands in the parking lot. Maxwell purses his lips.

“Quaint.”

They walk into the shabby lobby, all peeling wallpaper and yellowing ceilings, and ring the bell summoning a tired looking desk worker.

“Hello. Reservation?”

“No reservation. Any rooms available?”

“We always have rooms available. Nobody ever really visits. Two bed? Any floor preference? Smoking?”

“Yes, two beds. First floor please.” Maxwell turns to Wilson.

“Do you smoke?”

Wilson shrugs. “Not that much.”

“Nonsmoking room.”

“Forty-five dollars.”

Maxwell proffers a credit card to the woman as Wilson takes in the view. There isn’t much to see. The floor is a shabby mauve carpeting with a few cigarette ash marks ingrained into the fibers, and the walls boast a horrible pattern which has mercifully started to peel away revealing the blank wall behind it. The lobby has a couple uncomfortable benches and a vending machine, but not much else. This certainly wasn’t the type of hotel to come with a continental breakfast - or any breakfast for that matter. It’s the sort of hotel Wilson is used to staying in.

Maxwell clears his throat and Wilson turns away from the wallpaper to follow him down the hallway to their room. The room, much like the lobby, is nothing to boast about. The carpet is the same mauve colour, and though there aren’t any cigarette burns the ugly browned cream shade of the curtains more than makes up for the lack. At least, Wilson thinks, the sheets look clean enough. He prays that there aren’t bedbugs as he rolls his suitcase over to the bed closer to the door. As he unzips the case, he notices that Maxwell lacks any sort of luggage. Actually, now that he’s really looking - the suit that the other man is in does seem rather worn and dirty. It’s odd. The man clearly has money for not only a change in clothes, but also for better transportation to California. Just another layer of mystery, he supposes.

“We should stop by a store tomorrow. To get you more clothes. If we’re taking the scenic route, you’ll want more than just that one suit.” 

Maxwell turns around from where he was messing with the heater/air-conditioner,

“Yes, I suppose you’re right. I was not planning on being around long enough to require a change in clothes.” 

How ominous. Now that he thinks about it, a lot of the things Maxwell has said sound a bit off in his mind. His conscience stings. He doesn’t like to pry but... 

“What do you mean... be around?” 

Maxwell responds with the flippancy of one announcing that the clothes-dryer has beeped,

“Well. Be alive of course.” 

Wilson awkwardly fiddles with the zipper of his suitcase. 

“Listen... We don’t need to take the long way. If you don’t think that...” 

“Pal. Don’t worry about it. I’m not sick... well. That’s not true... I’m not terminally ill.” 

Wilson ponders the ethics of this situation. He grabs his toiletries and clothes and stands abruptly,

“Anyway... I’m going to go shower and change into my pyjamas.” 

Maxwell accepts the obvious escape tactic with a nod, and Wilson disappears into the bathroom. When he comes back out, he finds the Maxwell already passed out on the other bed. He shrugs, clicks off the light, and falls asleep. 


	2. In which the emperor receives new clothes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A laundromat scene.

The morning brings a harsh light beamed directly into Wilson’s brain. The shitty hotel curtains flutter around the window sending sun and shadows dancing across his face. He squints against the alternating _brightdarkbright_ and groans as a wave of photosensitive nausea rolls across him. He flings a hand over his eyes and attempts to roll away but is stuck in the sinking material of the lumpy mattress. He lies there for a few moments, just breathing, before pushing himself into a sitting position. A quick glance to the other bed tells him that Maxwell is still asleep. He picks out clothes for the day from his suitcase along with his toothbrush and razor and hopes that the other man is awake by the time he’s out; he doesn’t want to have to wake him up. Thankfully, Maxwell _is_ awake when he comes back, and the two pass each other wordlessly as Wilson exits the bathroom and Maxwell enters. 

Maxwell exits the bathroom about twenty minutes later - still in the dirty suit but looking more put together than before at least. He picks at a fleck of dirt on his tie before sitting on the bed to put on his shoes. 

“We should get a map from the lobby. See if there are clothing stores. Also maybe see what town we’re in.” 

Wilson nods. “Sounds good.” 

The hotel lobby isn’t any nicer in the morning light. The wallpaper is still peeling and the floors are still scorched. A different desk worker greets them as they go to turn in their keys. “Hello! Have a nice stay?”

Maxwell grimaces. “Sure. Let’s say that. Say, do you have any maps of the area?”

“Sure do! One second.”

There is a rustling noise as the much-too-awake-to-be-natural employee digs through a large filing cabinet underneath the desk. “Here you go!” 

Maxwell takes the proffered map. “... Thanks.”

Wilson laughs as he peeks at the map over Maxwell’s shoulder. “Hey this town has the same name as you.” 

Maxwell turns the map over in his hands. A bright blue sans serif cheerily declares the region as Maxwell, Nebraska. “That it does.” 

There isn’t any sort of big box store in the town, but they do manage to scrounge a few loosely fitting button ups and slacks from the local thrift store. The size isn’t too far off, but still Wilson can’t help but notice how the too-large clothes exacerbate Maxwell’s already thin frame. He turns away. It isn’t his business. He’s certainly not going to ask - it may be a sensitive topic and he doesn’t know the man nearly well enough. As they comb the racks, Wilson comes across a rather nice turtleneck sweater in a _lovely_ piney green. As he sighs wistfully, inspecting the price tag, Maxwell returns again, holding a pile of clothes and wearing one of his soon-to-be-new purchases. 

“That’s a nice sweater. Go ahead and add it to the pile if you want it.” 

“Huh? Nono! I can’t afford-“

“Add it to the pile. I’m buying anyhow.”

Wilson gives him a sharp look. “I don’t need you to buy me clothing.” 

Maxwell meets his gaze with a blank, emotionless stare. “Pal. Trust me when I say I won’t be worrying about money anymore very very soon. Let me buy you the sweater.” 

Wilson, having no response to that, wordlessly passes the sweater over to Maxwell who adds it to the small pile of clothes in his arms. Maxwell, for his part, moves the conversation along. 

“We should stop by the laundromat. Get these washed.”

Nodding absentmindedly, Wilson agrees. Maxwell accepts the silent agreement with a sharp nod of his own and turns briskly to walk to the cash registers and pay for the purchases. Wilson waits by the door until the purchase is finished and once out the door accepts the sweater placed into his arms. Wasting no time, he shoves it over his head, putting it on. Maxwell purses his lips, “You should have washed that first.”

Wilson shrugs. “So says the man also wearing unwashed clothes.” 

Maxwell sighs. “Touché.” 

The drive to the laundromat is quick, and they are soon divested of a dollars worth of quarters - seventy-five cents for the washer and twenty-five for a small cupful of detergent. As they wait for the laundry to wash, Maxwell attempts idle conversation. 

“So... You’re a doctor... of sorts?” 

Wilson laughs. “Yeah. I’m a chemist. Doctoral student. I _am_ CPR certified though, and I’ve taken _quite_ a few biology courses.” 

Maxwell nods. “I see. So, what brings you out West?”

“Just a conference.”

“Conference?”

“Oh it’s an annual thing. Happens somewhere different every year. Reno was the location this time - luckily for you. Attendance is required for the class - shit - I need to call my professor actually. Let him know that I won’t be going.” 

As Wilson speaks, he digs through his pockets for his phone. Finding it, he stands, flipping the phone open and beginning to dial his professor’s number. 

“Be right back, Maxwell.” 

Maxwell nods. “Sure.” 

Staring at the spinning clothes, Maxwell begins to wonder what the hell he’s even doing. Why is he in this nowhere town? Why is he washing secondhand clothes in a shitty laundromat? Why agree to go on this trip a total stranger? Why did he even go out to Iowa - first by bus and then on foot - anyway? He has money - he has means. He could have taken a car, or a train, or a bus the whole way... or hell! Just stayed in New York and had a handful of painkillers or a jugful of bleach and just been _done_ with it. What was the point of this trip? He can’t even remember what propelled him out the backstage door after his last show with just his wallet, the contents of his pockets, and the clothes on his back... _God_. He hadn’t even said _goodnight_ to Charlie let alone _Goodbye_. All he knows is the memory of a visceral yearning to see the sea again - an instinctive calling to come home _come home._ He snorts. Maybe it’s the artist in him - ever obsessed with the theatre - the need for a reprise. Maybe it’s that theatrics that calls him back to the Golden Gate Bridge. Or maybe part of him isn’t quite ready to die and is stretching this out in some last ditch attempt to hit the broken brakes of this horrid train of thought barrelling towards the wide expanse of the Pacific. Does he really care? 

He looks up from the washer as the jingle of the laundromat door sounds again and Wilson reenters. “Get out of class?”

“Yep.”

Maxwell stares at the washer again. “You know, you could have claimed a family emergency without driving me around.” 

Wilson shrugs and plops himself down on the bench next to Maxwell. “Yeah, but it’s more interesting this way.” 

“I suppose so.”

“What are you looking at?”

“Nothing. Just thinking.”

“Oh... Hey where in San Fran are we headed to? It’s a big city. Anywhere in particular you wanna be dropped off?”

“Once again. I’m grateful for however far you’ll take me.” 

“Say I drove you the whole way.”

Maxwell taps his knee with a finger. “The Golden Gate Bridge I suppose then.” 

There is a beat of silence. “You know. They probably have things to stop people from doing... _that_ up there.” 

Maxwell sneers. “I’m a professional stage magician with years of training in deception and contortion. I think I can manage to sneak past a few barriers and underpaid social workers.” 

“Hey no need to get defensive. Your funeral-“

Wilson’s brain catches up to his mouth and he bites down on his cheek, _hard_ , but Maxwell is already bursting into near hysterical laughter on the bench next to him. He watches, near mortified, as the older man clutches at his chest, his laughs devolving into a hacking coughs. 

“I-I’m sorry I...”

Maxwell throws an arm over Wilson’s shoulder. 

“Pal, that was the funniest thing anyone’s said to me in ages. I wish more people were like you.” 

Wilson pushes the arm off of him, but he’s also starting to chuckle.

“Thanks I guess.” 

Maxwell is grateful when the washer beeps and abruptly stands to load the clothes into the drier. Looking across the laundromat, he mentally hits himself. ‘ _What the hell was that, Carter_?’ He had no business being so friendly with Wilson. They weren’t friends. They weren’t even colleagues. They were strangers tenuously tied together in some twisted bastardisation of Charon and the soul on the Styx. _God_. This was all so bizarre. He hadn’t had any sorts of expectations, but he can safely say that the offer to drive him the whole way came out of left field - especially with the lack of questions as well as the lack of any sort of moral vomit about how “life still had hope”. Wilson was certainly an odd sort of man, but the more Maxwell thinks about it the more he genuinely agrees with his earlier statement - given so unthinkingly. It’s an odd realisation, but he supposes it doesn’t really matter. He finishes slotting the coins into the dryer and returns to sit silently on the bench. 


	3. In which lavender is dried

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A visit to the gardens.

By noon, they’re on the road again after a quick lunch. Once again, Wilson is enjoying country driving and Maxwell is wondering if they’ll even make it out of Nebraska alive. The endless fields of crops blur together as they bump along adjacent to highway 80. Wilson has some sort of music playing, but it’s impossible to tell exactly what it is over the rushing wind coming in through the open windows. His hair is tied back again, but a few stubborn flyaway still whip around his face. He whoops at every turn and pothole acting for all intents and purposes as if Maxwell isn’t there except for a few frightening moments when he’ll turn away from the road to look right at him and yell something over the sounds of wind and song. 

“We’re stopping in Cheyenne!”

“What?!”

Wilson cuts the music. 

“We’re stopping in Cheyenne! They have a really nice Botanical Garden! Do you like plants?” 

“A bit.” Maxwell shrugs. “I used to garden back in England. Didn’t do it in New York though. No space.” 

Wilson’s face lights up. “What did you plant?” His eyes narrow. “Wait. Don’t tell me you had one of those awful ‘English Gardens’ with the statues...” 

Maxwell laughs, shaking his head. “No. Nothing like that. Our family wasn’t quite that rich. Mother liked roses and we also grew some phlox and catmint. Lots of pastel hues. Pinks and purples. Foxgloves. We had a rather large patch of lavender. Used to bundle and dry them. I kept the gardens when she passed away before we moved.” 

Wilson nods approvingly. “That sounds very lovely. I’m more of a vegetable garden person myself, but I had heard that the Cheyenne Botanicals are rather stunning, and I was meaning to go anyway, albeit after the conference.” 

Wilson turns back to the road then, and it’s easy what with the lack of visually stunning vistas for Maxwell to fall back into thought - this time dwelling on the gardens he once had. He can still smell the scent of the bundled lavenders so lovingly picked and dried hanging from the windows of the house. While his brother Jack was out with their father, he - ever a whispy, sickly sort of boy - stayed at home with their mother doing the baking and the gardening. Though he feels as though he got the better end of the deal really; Jack had a hard time as a single father in the early days. 

He vividly recalls the sleepless months in which he had cancelled his shows just so that he and Charlie could drive down to help out. While they all knew nothing of how to care for a baby, he and Charlie had had to teach Jack to cook and to clean as well as the tips and tricks of keeping a household. It was hard. The loss of Jack’s wife and Wendy’s twin in childbirth had hit the man hard, and the sudden shift from being a married man expecting twins to the single father of one had not been at all easy. Though, he supposes that now Jack is the more adjusted of the two. As he continues to stare off into the middle distance, he slowly is lured into the realm of sleep. 

He's awakened gently as Wilson lightly shakes his shoulder. “We’re here.” 

Stretching, he squints out across the parking lot to glimpse the expansive gardens. “Indeed.” 

Exiting the car is easier this time - having had a few substantial meals and a good nights sleep. The world doesn’t spin nearly as much when he goes from sitting reclined in the car to standing on the parking lot asphalt. The noon sun is bright, almost blinding as it glares down on them, but it adds a kiss of heat to the otherwise crisp fall air so he is not too mad. He follows Wilson’s excited footsteps at a much more sedate pace, taking in the view as they enter. As they traverse the lot, they pass a large rose garden, and Maxwell finds himself struck by their beauty, wishing that Charlie was here to see this as well. He marks the place in his memory to include in his letter. 

It’s even more beautiful once they reach the gardens proper. Maxwell finds himself speechless at the thousands of plants surrounding him from even just the first steps into the building - and there was so much more beyond that as well, the building being only a small part of the park itself. He’d had his mother’s garden back in England of course and it was lovely and sentimental, but it was a small thing really - a few native plants, a few veg, and some flowers is all. This was much different. Not better, but still striking in the sharp contrast and magnificent in its verdant opulence. The towering trees of the centrepiece merge with the stone architecture and reach toward the heavens, and Maxwell finds himself craning his head to look up and peer in wonder at the glass ceiling where the sunlight cascades down through oh so many leaves. He’s never seen anything like this. 

Wilson notices that his companion has stopped and, remembering Maxwell’s earlier reaction to being touched on the arms, grabs him by the hand before he is lost to the crowds of tourists milling about inside. Maxwell starts and jolts into motion, shocked by the sudden contact. He blankly allows himself to be pulled through the building and out to the vegetable gardens, only later realising that he is blushing. 

**Author's Note:**

> “Even if your love was unconditional, it still wouldn’t be enough to save me.” - Against Me!


End file.
